Rivers of Blood
by Soulforger
Summary: Azkaban!Harry, Dark!Harry. After three years in prison, Harry's out for revenge and for his enemies' blood. warning: violence, language.
1. Prologue

_**Rivers of Blood**_

**by Soulforger **

_Summary: After three years in Azkaban, where he discovers something about himself that could spell the damnation of his enemies, Harry breaks out from the dreaded fortress; the problem is, his enemy is the entire wizarding society, and he isn't as merciful as he once was. Either Harry Potter will fall, or the world of wizards will._

Prologue

I've done nothing wrong.

It took me a long time to realise this, but now I know I've done nothing wrong.I followed my beliefs, and I acted upon them. My actions may have led to Sirius' death, but am I to blame?

I don't think so. Dumbledore is. Snape is. And Voldemort, and Bellatrix.

But Dumbledore, he had grown used to being obeyed without questioning, he had grown too used to me being a mindless pawn in his chess game, so why would he feel the need to tell me that Voldemort could use my scar to broadcast his cheesy horror flicks?

I don't know what kind of game Dumbledore is playing, but his manipulations continue even now, that I'm rotting inside of a cell in Azkaban; after all, I remain, to the best of my knowledge, the only one capable of defeating Voldemort. Maybe, when he deems it appropriate, he'll unleash me on Voldemort, hoping to lock me up when I'm done, or hoping we'll just off each other.

Neither scenario is to my liking, though, and I'll make sure neither comes to pass. I've absolutely no intention of dying at the hands of Voldemort, Dumbledore, or wasting away in a cell; actually, I've no intention of dying, period.

The time I spent in prison has helped me to put things in perspective, and, much as I loathe the man, I've gained a great degree of appreciation for Riddle's ultimate goal. But, that'll be a long time from now.

I'm starting to grin, and I wish someone was here to see it; judging from the reactions I got the last time the aurors saw me like this, my face must be something terrifying. Good.

I'll show everyone that no one does this to me and live to tell the tale. I'll show Dumbledore that my power isn't my ability to feel miserable, I'll show him my power isn't _love_, as he implied, and that I'm all the better for it; I _never_ understood love, it really isn't my forte.

One would think that red headed whore that goes by the name of Ginevra Weasley would understand I was clueless when it came to affection, and that there was no need for her to parade her boyfriends and her whorish ways in front of me, in a futile attempt to make me jealous. Next time I see her, and make no mistake, there _will_ be a next time; I'll tell her that the way she should've used to get my attention was to drop to her knees in front of me, and put that screeching mouth of hers to good use.

I'll leave soon, very soon, as I have waste to dispose of, like Voldemort and his minions, Dumbledore and his orderlies, the ministry, and many, many others. I hate them, all of them. If any of those yokels knew the extent of my hate, or the unimaginable greatness of the power I now have at my disposal, they would shit themselves, run, and hide. Like the dementors did.

Sensible creatures, really, as soon as I "awoke" and they understood what they faced, they ran from me. Oh, they're still here, at least the ones the ministry was able to bribe into coming back, but they haven't come near me in a long time; they rarely show up in my corridor, and when they are forced to, they glide past my cell as if the hounds of hell are on their heels.

Now, to make a big decision: wait here for Dumbledore to grow desperate enough to let me out, or simply blast my way out and cause the largest manhunt this putrid society ever undertook?

On second thought, I'll just order one of the dementors to let me out; as luck would have it, one of them is coming my way right now. I called out to get the attention of the little shit, and as he approached, I could see the 7foot tall aberration trembling in fear. I chuckled at being able to terrorize fear itself; it really is a boost to one's ego.

I order it to let me out, and it complies. It knows I _can_ get out, one way or another, and it clearly prefers a peaceful solution. It fumbles with the lock, trying to get the door opened, but I quickly loose my patience and decide to get myself out.

"You're taking TOO FUCKING LONG!"

The cell door is blasted out, trapping the dementor behind it between the door and the wall it got imbedded in. The disgusting creature is obviously dead, it's physical form destroyed and oozing black blood, for lack of a better term; nothing would survive that impact.

I leave my cell, my humble abode for the last three years, and prowl the corridors of the ominous prison, a free man once again.

Wizard kind would pay.


	2. First Blood

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, he wouldn't have become the little pussy he is now.

Chapter 1 – **First some blood, then I escape**.

I felt a rush of excitement and eagerness as I left my cell. It's true I could've left earlier than this, but that would've been counter-productive. I'm leaving now, because now I'm certain I can wipe the floor with them if... when they decide to confront me. Oh, they'll have to find me first, but I won't shy away from a good fight; that was the old me, the weak, naive me. I suppose I've become slightly bloodthirsty (not literally, at least I don't think drinking blood will hold much appeal to me), but I honestly believe nothing would please me more greatly right now than stain these grounds red.

I walked the dark corridors, completely lost of course, since I was never given a tour of the place. They usually just chuck us into a cell and that's the end of it, at least it was for me. Maybe they could stand to learn a thing or two about muggles, especially when it comes to running a prison. Like, I don't know, letting us bathe once in a while, yearly at least, if they're that concerned about spending too much water.

As I said before, I walked through the damp, dark corridors, perfectly able to see in the shadowy environment, although I think others would have trouble seeing much ahead of their noses; it seemed as if the light of the scarce torches that lined the corridors was also trying to get out at all costs, so the sickly yellow glow didn't illuminate much. As I tried to find the exit, I quickly became annoyed. The dank atmosphere of the place, combined with the cries and gibbering of the prisoners (I never heard it in my cell, since the dementors never approached; the few prisoners placed in cells near mine were the most fortunate in the island) were starting to get on my nerves.

I started considering blasting the building to outer space (Not that I could do it – yet – but that's how pissed I was getting.), when suddenly I turned a corner and came to a halt.

The massive, rusty iron gates of Azkaban stood before me. Over 50 feet tall, at least 4 feet thick, built and held by magic, they were truly a sight to behold. If they weren't so thoroughly disgusting, that is. As I approached the entry hall of the prison, I heard some voices. Human voices, though they weren't crying or moaning. Hence, they aren't prisoners.

"Who the hell are those?" I mumbled to myself. "It's not as if this is a very popular destination." I vowed to stop talking to myself, after all, that's one of the first signs of insanity, and I was not insane. Maybe slightly unbalanced, but not insane, honest!

There were two wooden doors on each side of the hall that seemed to lead to some small, quaint and as shitty as the rest of this place, rooms. I crept closer, trying to hear better, to find out who they were. It wouldn't have mattered, I suppose, if I had been loud and approached carelessly. Whoever they were, they were too relaxed for their own good, and they could do nothing to harm me anyway, but I felt a sudden urge to play with my preys before I struck.

"First thing I'll do is get drunk off my arse. And I swears I'll never set foot in this damn place again, no matter how much gold they pay! 'S only good fer dementors and the loonies locked up here, says I!"

'Man's voice, rough and slightly slurred. Heh, you didn't wait to get out of here to get pissed, did you?' thought Harry.

"Not me! I think I'll head to Knockturn Alley. There's a _gentleman's club_ there I can't wait to visit!" said a second voice.

"A titty bar, you mean?" asked the drunkard "Thought you was married."

"Yeah, and your point is?" a great bout of laughter erupted from both men following this statement. Harry's lips curled into a sneer.

'What wonderful examples these two are. When I remember McGonnagal telling me that aurors _only take the best_, I feel like laughing. Or puking, either suits me.' thought Harry. I remember that guy, the sober one, Peter something, Order member, auror, gave me a beating as a special welcome when I arrived. And he will suffer before I'm through with him.

"You're the pride of the Ministry, gentlemen! Drinking alcohol while on duty, prostitution, probably corruption, abuse of power, and who knows what else. What do you two little fucks think your punishment should be?" said Harry, loudly but softly, while leaning against the doorframe of the small guardhouse. It was a disgusting division, low ceiling, no windows, just like the rest of the building, illuminated by a couple of wax candles that gave out a sickly yellow glow and accentuated the dinginess of the place, a desk falling apart, leaning against the far wall, with some yellowish papers and assorted filth on it, and a table in slightly better condition with two chairs near the door, where the two aurors were sitting.

As soon as the drunkard spotted Harry, his eyes grew wide, and he started fumbling with his robes, trying (and failing) to get his wand out. The other man leapt up with a cry of "Potter!" and bolted for the desk, where he started fumbling through the papers.

"For shame, gentlemen! Isn't it a basic lesson of auror training to keep your wands on yourselves at all times while on duty? And I'm sure you're not allowed to drink, too, you naughty, naughty boys!" said Harry, as if he was admonishing little kids.

The drunken auror finally found his wand and shakily levelled it at Harry, whose smile turned feral as he raised his hand at the man. Out of nowhere, there was a gust of wind and sand surrounding the auror, obscuring him from sight and muffling his cries. His co-worker, having at last retrieved his wand from the desk, turned around to see a cloud of sand around his friend, and blocking Potter from his sight. The sand and dust finally settled, and Peter let out a cry of horror at seeing the other man's condition; the only thing remaining was a bloody skeleton, with small bits of flesh still hanging to the bones, as if he had been _sandpapered_ to death!

Shaking in fear, he saw Potter looking straight at him, and waving his hand casually in the skeleton's direction, promptly turning it into dust. He wet himself as he saw Potter slowly advancing towards him, looking like a demon out of Hell, and shakily raised his wand.

"S-s-stupefy!"

Potter, however, didn't move, and Peter thought the spell would hit its intended target, but his relief was short lived, as he watched the stunner impact with no effect against Potter's outstretched hand.

"A-avadaAAAAARGH!" An excruciating pain in his wand hand interrupted his casting. He looked in shocked terror at his hand, or what was left of it, tears of pain and fear beginning to stream down his face. He had three deep gashes cutting through the back of his right hand that severed skin, muscles, bone and fingers. He fell to the floor and started to crawl back, desperately trying to get away from the advancing demon-eyed convict, only to collide with something soft.

The ensuing cry of terror was ear splitting, as the auror came face-to-face with a lioness, whose bloody claws still held some remains of his hand stuck to it. He started to crawl to the nearest wall, in a last, desperate, pathetic attempt to escape both his tormentors. He was clearly going into shock, and was starting to foam at the mouth. Harry kneeled beside him and softly said, "I'm going to cauterise your wound. We wouldn't want you to die, would we?" Peter, helpless, felt Potter touch his arm, and then passed out from the most intense pain he had ever experienced.

He woke up after a couple of minutes, feeling Potter violently slap his face, in more pain than he thought he could stand. "Finally awake? I was about to get you a fucking blanket, you little pansy! Take the pain and suck it up, are you a man or what?" said Harry, letting out a bark of laughter. He dropped the auror to the floor.

Peter glanced at his arm, and saw that his hand and wrist were now blackened stumps, beyond any hope of healing. He stared, wide-eyed and disbelieving at what had once been his hand. Potter, kneeling once again next to him, reached out and held his blackened appendage.

"See, the bleeding has stopped!" stated Harry in a happy tone. "And now," gently exerting some pressure, Potter snapped his hand off as if it was a dry twig "we won't be needing this any longer!" said Potter cheerily, throwing the hand away over his shoulder. The auror fainted again.

This time, he was taken out of unconsciousness by Harry holding him up and repeatedly shoving his face into the wall, which caused him to loose teeth, break his nose, and split his lips. 'It wasn't a nightmare!' thought Peter in desperation. He was now out of the guardhouse, in the entry hall of the fortress being held above the ground by Potter, who was holding his collar with one hand, and holding a necklace with the other.

"Interesting piece of magic, this. While it doesn't necessarily replicate the effects of a Patronus, it seems to make you largely immune to dementors, right? Probably given to every auror who has to undertake Azkaban duty." With a tug, Harry ripped the necklace off the auror's neck.

"Tell me", said Harry, once again focusing on the terrified man "are you married?"

"Y-yes!"

"Yet, you were talking about visiting a brothel, you naughty boy! That's not very nice, is it? What would your dear wife think if she knew?"

"I think your dear wife, whoever she is, would be heartbroken to know you were visiting those ladies, don't you think? And that wouldn't be very nice, would it?"

"Please! Please, I beg you! Let m-me go and, and... and I'll never do it again. Never, I swear! I won't beat prisoners ever again, I swear! Please!" cried the broken man.

Harry smiled sweetly and said, "I believe you. Call me crazy, but I believe you won't be making any of those things you mentioned again. Ever." Harry dropped the man to the floor, turned around and walked to the gates. Chuckling, he whispered to himself "I believe you won't be doing much of anything from now on. I guarantee it."

As Potter approached the gates, Peter saw them swinging open to grant him passage. When he passed the threshold, they closed with a deafening, thunderous sound that jolted the auror back to reality. Peter was on his knees, shaking uncontrollably, not believing he had survived a meeting with _the_ Harry Potter. He got up unsteadily, and thought of calling for help when he felt _them_. A chill wind extinguished the frail flames burning in the torches.

Turning around, he saw _them_, moving in the dark, gliding soundlessly, the feelings of dread they evocated the only thing that heralded their coming. He wondered what was happening, why were the dementors behaving like this, and why he was feeling their presence so strongly, when he remembered Potter taking away his necklace! Looking horrified at the advancing swarm of soul-sucking fiends, he got up and made for the gates. Placing his remaining hand on the rusty metal, he cried, "Open!" Nothing happened.

"Open, goddamit! Open!" The gates lurched, as if they were going to obey the command, but otherwise remained closed. Looking up, he saw, to his absolute astonishment, that the gates wouldn't open because the iron had been melted and cooled, sealing the doors together, and thus sealing him inside of Azkaban. With the dementors.

He looked at the ever-advancing darkness, and knew he had to get to his wand, but that meant returning to the guardhouse, and that meant running _towards_ the dementors.

Gritting his teeth, fighting the growing desperation he felt, he ran towards the guardhouse, and spotted his wand on the floor –lying in a pool of his own blood. Fighting the sickness that threatened to overwhelm him, he grabbed the wand, but realised half of it remained on the floor! Broken! His wand was broken! He turned around, intent on making his way to the gates again, but after a couple of steps he came to a halt.

There, at the door, were the dementors, who started pouring into the room silently, and with tortuous slowness. The man fell to the floor once more, and started crawling to the back of the room. The dementors didn't interrupt their advance. The candle went out. Peter's last shriek echoed throughout the corridors of the ancient fortress, as maniacal laughter could be heard outside.


	3. Departures, and a long awaited reunion

Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Harry Potter; if I was JK, I'd have been too ashamed to publish that piece of crap that was HBP to ever show my face in public again.

A/N: I'd like to thank all those who took the time to review my new story. Someone commented on the fact of Harry being evil; now that I think of it, maybe he is a little, but not Voldemort-evil, just, well, Normal Person-evil; he won't be killing innocents, just those he considers as enemies.

**Chapter 2 – Departures, and a long awaited reunion.**

Once upon a time, in the magical hovel know as the Burrow (more of a run-down shack, but whatever), lived a family of red-furred creatures known as the Weasleys. They ate a lot, worked occasionally, and didn't bathe very often (not nearly enough, if the smell in the house was any indication). Lately, the creatures had acquired a new companion, a brown-furred creature with what looked like a squirrel's teeth, which smelled of mould and other old stuff. Out of all these repulsive creatures, there was one that was particularly loathsome; his hair was redder than the rest, he was so hideously ugly that he could cause people to lose their lunch, he managed to shed more fur than a dog, he had the eating (and bathing) habits of a swine, and he had the stupid habit of spending hours on end on top of a flying stick, somehow ending up covered in mud, and not washing afterwards. His smell must've been so offending, even to the other creatures, that the only time water touched his bloated body (that's what happens when you stuff your face in every meal with ten pounds of food; he still offered the excuse that he was a growing boy, after all, he was definitely growing, to the sides, that is) was when the others forced him to bathe.

Analysing the habits of the filthy creatures with which she was forced to co-habit, Hedwig was less than pleased at her current situation. She didn't mind their presence before, even if she didn't really like them; but one day, her master disappeared, and she was forced to live with this band of stupid humans. Being unusually perceptive for an owl, she was able to pick on the fact that they now disliked her master. It was bad enough having to share their living space, it was bad enough having to smell them, but when it came to Harry-human, they crossed the line! It was her human, and he was better than all of them together! He was strong, they were not; he was friendly to her, these ones had the audacity of treating her like some common animal! He gave her food and treats; these ones didn't bother with owl food, not even for the irritating ball of feathers, or even the Ancient One! That one was old, far older than any of her kind Hedwig had ever met, and these low bred worms had no appreciation or reverence for the noble bird! They _dared_ mock him and make joking comments about him, even when he took it upon himself to run errands for them, despite his age!

So, they had to resort to hunting. Hedwig, along with the bouncing ball of feathers, refused to allow the Old One to hunt for his own food; as their elder, the younger owls would feed him, as was proper.

To top it all, the smelly apes expected her to serve them. Not a chance. She would only serve these apes if Harry-human told her to, and she'd be doing it reluctantly. Now, the Fat Smelly approaches. Carries something in his hand, and is calling for her in an improper manner, expecting her to abide to his wishes. Suddenly, Hedwig's body jerks, and she starts staring fixedly at one point in the wall, but appearing to be able to see beyond the wall. She waited a long time for this, for the familiar call of her master. A strange glint entered the snowy owl's amber eyes. She'd rejoin her master very, very soon. But first...

Ronald Weasley was not a smart person. Everyone who knew him, save for himself, acknowledged this. He was just lacking in intelligence; he was born that way, and did nothing to improve. There were four things that Ronald Weasley liked: Food, Quidditch, money, and people who praised him, in that order. He stuffed his face every chance he got, so now, instead of looking tall and thin, he looked tall, but also had a bloated body, like one sees in drowned corpses; he liked Quidditch, so everyday he spent several hours on a broom, deluding himself that he would one day be able to play professionally, and he needed to practice (he was unemployed, since his grades weren't high enough to allow him to work on the ministry, and he wouldn't accept what he called _lesser jobs_); he liked money, so he borrowed from either his businessmen brothers, Fred and George, or from his fiancé, Hermione Granger, who got a position of researcher on the Department of Mysteries; and since he constantly needed people to praise him, he kept himself around either his family, or the few members of the Order who gave a shit about him. However, despite all these character flaws, the most blatant one was not his gluttony, his jealousy, his greed, his laziness, his parasitic lifestyle, or his deficient hygiene; the most obvious, the most blatantly obvious was his stupidity.

And that's one of the reasons one could find the great Ronald Weasley, one sunny Friday morning, around eleven-thirty a.m. (he'd just got out of bed), bleary-eyed and on his pyjamas, without his wand or any form of backup, insulting a creature that not only utterly despised him, but also possessed a sharp beak, and very, _very_ sharp talons.

"Oy! Get down here you ruddy bird! It's time ya earned your keep! I won't put up anymore with an owl that doesn't do its work!" screamed Ron, spit flying everywhere. The owl was looking down on him, and would have laughed in his face if able to do so.

"Get down here and take this letter to Headmaster Dumbledore right now!" screeched Ron, in a voice that sounded surprisingly like his mother's. "I don't have all bloody day, you damn bird! Either take this, or there's no food tonight, you hear?"

Ron was about to continue to enunciate the several reasons Hedwig should obey him, and how busy he was, when he saw the owl trembling and turn her head sharply.

"What's this, then? You havin' an attack or sumthin? Just die, then, see if I care! And your owner'll follow ya soon, if I've anythin' to say 'bout it!" So busy was Ronald Weasley ranting and complaining, that he failed to see amber eyes focus on him, and Hedwig looking at him like she usually looks at the mice she hunts. While its true owls aren't generally dangerous, they're still birds of prey. They hunt, and the talons they sport shouldn't be taken lightly, so, common sense dictates that one does _not_ insult a proud, furious owl, especially if one cannot defend oneself. Unfortunately, Ronald Weasley was only capable of realising by himself how to breathe and how to shovel food into his gaping maw; anything beyond that, and he had to take orders from higher intellects, and was therefore unaware of the danger he was in.

Hedwig swooped down from her perch, diving towards the surprised face of the great Ronald Weasley. She latched herself, one talon on his nose, the other on his fat cheek, and started to bite out Ron's left eye. It came out after only three attempts, but the owl wasn't finished with Ronald Weasley yet, no sir! She spent several more seconds scratching and biting him, and it seemed she'd only be satisfied when Ron looked like Mad-Eye Moody. Ron started screaming like a little girl as soon as Hedwig dove at him, and was jumping and flapping his arms around like a little fairy, trying to get the murderous owl off of him.

Hedwig heard something outside the room they were in, probably some apes coming to see what Smelly's feminine screeches were about. Satisfied, and having taken her revenge for herself and her master, she took flight, pausing only to look at Pigwidgeon as if to say _"Take care of the Ancient One."_ Seeing the little owl's solemn nod, she flew away from the Burrow. Her master was back! She would see Harry-human soon!

Harry, his back turned to the prison-fortress, stood atop a small, barren hill that allowed him a good view of the rest of the island. He closed his eyes and smiled, as if the artic wind that blew across the island and the freezing rain that started to fall pleased him. the grey clouds that hung permanently over the island were getting darker, and a few moments later, a thunder sounded not too far away.

"A storm. They are frightening, fierce and destructive, yet, in their wake, change follows. And changes are not necessarily bad, are they?" asked Harry, seemingly talking to himself, as if he was as crazy as the other residents of the island. Looking up at the lead-coloured sky, he said, "A storm is over this island, as it soon will be over all of wizarding Britain." Looking to his right he asked "A good omen, don't you think?"

A swirling cloud of smoke came out of thin air, and a lioness appeared next to him.

"What I really think is that you spent too much time here. When you start channelling Trelawney, that's where I draw the line!" replied the lioness in what would've been mere growls to anyone else.

Harry chuckled, and said loudly, "RIGHT! Time to leave this gods-forsaken lump of rock. Coming?" he asked as he started walking to a boathouse at the edge of the cliffs that made up most of the Azkabanian coast.

"I don't have much choice, do I? Enjoy yourself, Sekhem." The lioness disappeared again, but she wore what appeared to be a smile on her feline face.

David Williamson was an auror, not the best, but also not the worst. He was just average, but took pride in being levelheaded and brave when danger arose, just like any other self-respecting Gryffindor. But, as he heard the door of the boathouse being smashed in and looked at the person who did it, he couldn't repress a shiver as he stared into those green eyes. He didn't know whom they belonged to, but the long filthy hair, the beard, and the pale, thin frame clearly labelled him a prisoner. Not a common prisoner, though, for a common prisoner would not have been able to lift him off the floor with one hand, nor would a common prisoner be able to throw him across the boathouse, smashing through the opposite wooden wall in the process. But David Williamson didn't register any of this; even as he was thrown through a wall, and over the seventy ft tall cliffs, all he could think of was those burning eyes.

Inside the boathouse were a couple of bunk beds, one of them occupied. The man who had been sleeping jumped at the sound of the wooden walls being smashed through, but before he could even get off the bed, Harry grabbed him by the collar of his nightshirt, lifted him up, and smashed him headfirst through the boathouse's floor. Considering that half the boathouse was hanging over the precipice, suspended by magic, logic dictated that someone crashing through the floor would end up either smashed into a pulp on the rocks below, or, in the best of chances, end up in the freezing water, and only then, thrown against the rocks by the strong currents, and smashed into a pulp. Of course that was just what Harry intended, so it was fine by him.

Harry remembered being brought to the island through this boathouse. Soon, he spotted a trap door on the floor, and opened it. A magic-powered lift placed there was used to bring people in and out of the island. It must've been spelled to activate as soon as someone stepped in, and Harry slowly descended to the base of the cliffs. Stepping out of the lift, he found himself on a small stone pier. The storm was really becoming quite fierce, but Harry noticed that the waves seemed to die and flatten around the pier and the little boat secured to it. He remembered being transported in this very same rotting piece of wood, and he certainly hoped the boat was enchanted too; otherwise he'd be swallowing a lot of water real soon. Jumping inside the small floating..._thing_ (it really didn't deserve being called a boat), he wondered what to do, when he remembered that the aurors that brought him to prison activated it by voice. He hopped it would work likewise for the trip back to land, and that it didn't need a password; cursing himself for not thinking of it earlier, he realised he no longer had any live aurors in the island to interrogate. Well, there was _one_ still alive, but the chances of him talking about anything anytime soon were as likely as Snape washing his hair.

"Hum. Take me to land?" To Harry's joy, the boat started moving out into open sea. The floating contraption was barely able to seat four people, and was falling apart, no matter how much magic was poured into it; Harry briefly wondered if they recycled Hogwarts' boats to use here. Shaking himself out of thoughts about Hogwarts (usually they evolved, and ended up with a cloudy red sky, Hogwarts in flames, crumbling to dust soon after, and the head of one Albus Dumbledore on a pike in front of the gates; in Harry's imagination, Dumbledore's severed head always had its mouth open, with its tongue dangling, and that always made Harry laugh like mad), Harry thanked the Powers that be for magic, otherwise the twelve foot waves would pulverize the piece of shit he was travelling in. As it was, the boat barely shook, and he enjoyed a rather smooth ride.

It was so dark, that half an hour later all Harry could see were the giant waves surrounding him, and that only when lightning crossed the skies. Therefore, he was totally unprepared to be thrown out of the boat ten minutes after that, onto a rocky beach. Harry got up and ran, so he wouldn't be swept away by the waves. The storm wasn't so bad where he landed, and he could see lights in the distance; he started walking, intent on finding a shelter from the rain. There was a small patch of trees separating the coast from what he presumed to be a little fishing village. As he made his way through the woods, he noticed a nearer light; there was a small, lit cabin there, but Harry didn't stop. 'Probably fishermen, waiting for the storm to end so they can return to work.' thought Harry, not wanting to disturb whoever was inside.

He turned around, however, when he heard the cabin's door being opened. A man stepped outside, holding a lantern. No, not a lantern, but a lit _wand_! Harry crept silently behind the unsuspecting fool.

"What're ye doin' here, then?" bellowed the man, turning towards the beach, trying to spot whoever arrived in the boat; the recording system in the cabin indicated one passenger had arrived "C'mon, ya dolt, stop wastin' me time and get in! Ye must be barking mad to travel with dis weather!" Still not seeing anything, he shouted once more, "C'mon then! Wassamatter, dementors got yer tongue?"

"Something like that!" whispered Harry in the man's ear. The man jumped a foot in the air and whirled around to face Harry, who promptly sliced his throat open with claw-like hands. Harry stepped over the dead wizard and approached the cabin's door, trying to listen to signs of anyone else inside.

"Stan? Come on, the stew is getting cold! Best to eat it while it's hot and before some hungry Azkaban bastard arrives begging for food!" Not hearing a reply, he called again "Stan?"

"No, Harry." answered a cold voice. There was a man at the door! The state of his clothes and his appearance made it quite clear exactly _where_ he came from, and he was certainly not on guard duty! He grabbed his wand to fire a curse, but the wizard at the door had already closed in on him. The anonymous auror felt a sharp pain in his chest, and looked down to find the wizard's arm inside his ribcage. Had he been able to look at his own back, he would have seen that the other wizard's arm had completely skewered him, and that Harry's clawed hand was holding his still beating heart. The auror started choking on his blood, and fell with a look of shock. Harry removed his arm from the auror's thorax with a wet popping sound, still holding the man's heart.

"Eat this with your stew!" said Harry tossing the heart into a plate filled with rabbit stew. "Maybe it'll cheer you up! You look a bit...disheartened!" Harry roared in laughter at his own joke, and decided to use for a while, since its rightful occupants were indisposed. He went to the bathroom and immediately stepped into the shower, where he stayed for nearly two hours, washing away three years of filth. He did away with the beard, but decided to keep his hair long, after all it helped conceal his damn scar; not from the public, but from himself, he didn't want to have to look at that every time he looked in the mirror. He burned the robes he had been wearing, and set out to look for some serviceable clothes; none were available, except for some shabby brown robes and a torn black cloak. Grabbing the dead auror's wand, he transfigured the rags to the best of his ability into normal jeans and a black sweater; it would have to do for now. He casually took in his surroundings, and his eyes lit up when he spotted a broom! He lifted and examined it. A Comet 260, old, but in relatively good condition, it would help him move around until he figured out some magical means of transportation. He thought irritably that he could have already learned ho to apparate, if not for the fact he had been thrown into prison. Oh, well, he'd worry about it tomorrow, for now, he just wanted to dump the bodies somewhere and get a good night's sleep; the clock on the wall marked seven-forty p.m., but Harry had a long day.

However, before Harry could dispose of the two corpses, he was interrupted by something streaking through the door and nearly bowling him over. Harry was about to slice open this new threat, when he recognized with a start his first friend.

"HEDWIG?" shouted Harry elated.

The white owl hooted happily, and started circling the young wizard, covering him in feathers. Human and owl were together once again.


	4. Indecision the Ministry's Best

_Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and with the way the story's going I'm not sure I'd want to._

_A/N: I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to review for their encouraging comments. To the two or three people that invited me to Dark Lord Potter forums, I thank you for the invitation and I think it's a great site. I may join in the future, but not right now, I can barely write a couple of lines everyday before falling asleep. To the people who asked about Harry's powers, let me say that he has more limitations than you think. He has been in prison, and what he gained has absolutely nothing to do with what they teach at Hogwarts. So, he doesn't know how to apparate, he still can't transfigure something properly if his life depends on it, and he actually needs a wand to perform spells; he just doesn't need it to use whatever abilities he's gained in Azkaban. As for the pairings, I'm not sure how I could add Tonks, but since you guys asked, I'll give it a try; just don't expect anything soon, and don't expect me to write mushy stuff, it's not my style. I'm recovering from surgery, and fortunately I was able to keep my right hand attached to the rest of my body. I should have more time to write now, unfortunately, my wounds were infected and I have high fevers, so I'm not that inclined to writing for long periods._

_P.S. Glad y'all approve of the Hedwig scene!_

_P.P.S. shadowcub, you criticizing the story is fine; you flaming the story, if you so choose, also fine; you proclaiming Snape's innocence, not fine. If you want to praise Snape while you bash Harry, do it away from me, as it seems you're another Alan Rickman fangirl; either that, or you didn't read the books. Only a moron could consider Snape innocent, or a good guy. And Harry's not an asshole in canon, much to my displeasure; I think he should be more of an asshole, and less of a pussy. _

**Chapter 3 – Indecision; the Ministry's best.**

I was genuinely happy to see Hedwig again. She was the first creature I could honestly call a friend, human or not. The fact that she's not only more intelligent, but also shows more common sense than most humans I've met thus far, are a welcome bonus. Anyway, I've suddenly noticed how fucking starved I am, and what a shame it'd be to have those guys' stew go to waste, so I sat down and wolfed it down in about five minutes; I was about to apologise for not remembering to give some to Hedwig, when I noticed she was helping herself to some eyeballs. I'm officially freaked out now. It's one thing to go ape-shit and start slaughtering those fucks, slit their throats and rip their hearts out, but seeing my lovely, innocent (so I thought) beautiful owl feeding on those filthy flesh-bags, I got really scared.

The connection we both shared with one another was always deeper than most, however. At times I could tell what she was feeling or what she was trying to say to me if she so much as looked at me. Others, like Ron, simply weren't capable of understanding their animal companions; now that I think about it, Hermione (who I shall henceforth fondly refer to as Whore-On-My-Knee, as it fits my opinion of her much better, and it even sounds like her name) managed to choose the smartest fucking cat in the whole damn pet store, but could never understand him. For someone supposed to be smart, not being able to communicate with a cat, when even that stinking, rotting, rag wearing squib Filch could, should be a major blow to her over-inflated ego.

I had plenty of time to think while I was locked up, and I even went mad in there. In the beginning, the dementors affected me as much or even worse than the other prisoners, just like they did before. I felt so hopeless, so depressed, and most of all so helpless, that I turned into a vegetable within a week. Sirius once told me he could retain his sanity inside Azkaban because he knew he was innocent; I, on the other hand, could not cling to that thought, as I was not exactly innocent, and the dementors affected me too much anyway. I hated those creatures (still do), but that was the only way I would ever hear the voice of my parents again, even if I heard them being murdered, I wanted to hear them.

It wasn't psychologically healthy, not at all, but I challenge anyone that has lived a life like mine (not that I call this a life, more of an existence, really) to fare better than me, and to _not_ be a complete lunatic. And to someone abandoned by almost everyone he knew, locked up in a place that could be described as hell on Earth, the idea of a connection, no matter how faint, to people you knew would love you and treasure you no matter what you did was a comforting one, even if ultimately it caused you to lose your sanity and your will to live.

But I'm digressing too much; I was about to recall something about my best female friend. No one would guess at first, but Whore-On-My-Knee Granger is an egomaniacal girl. She actually believes she's better than anyone, that her intelligence makes her better than others, and that due to her brains, she should make decisions in other's place. I was a lot meeker when I was in school, I let everybody walk over me and push me around, just because I was too scared to say what I really thought, too scared that my _friends_ would walk away from me if I was anything other than compliant with their wishes and opinions, and that led me to be subjected to the rule of that insufferable buck-toothed hypocrite. I couldn't break rules, because I would lose Gryffindor the points _she_ worked so hard to get; obviously, when _she_ broke the rules, it was for the best. That self-righteous bitch felt she had some fucking divine mandate to rule over us simple mortals, she actually thought she could order _me_ around from the heights of her illuminated condition.

Actually, now that I think of it, she acts exactly like Dumbledore; only difference is that she doesn't have a beard or the twinkly eyes. And it's a damn good thing too, that she won't live long enough to become another Dumbledore. A stuck up bitch with McGonnagal's attitude and Dumbledore's _'I know what's best because I'm smarter than you'_ personality would be a scourge on the world. But I digress again, and I've wasted too much time thinking about those fucks anyway.

On the subject of my owl, I wonder if our connection made her _slightly_ more violent. Not just the eating-someone's-eyeballs part, but also because she seems intent on shredding the guy's face to pieces while she's at it. I wonder if she's done something like this before; if she has, I just hope my now-psychopathic avian companion did it to one (or several) of my former friends.

Anyway, putting aside my bloodthirsty owl's feeding habits, I start thinking about what to do next. I could not, in good conscience, let Voldemort, Dumbledore and the Ministry fight it out without intervening. I should go back, fight Voldemort and his servants, make everyone sorry they dumped me in prison, and then make them realise the wrongness in their actions, yeah, that's definitely the right thing to do. And then, I'd forgive them, we'd have a happy, teary reunion and we'd be happy forever, with me and Ginny breeding like rabbits to increase the already large Weasley family; after all, I'd become an honorary Weasley again, and we'd all be a big happy fucking family, right?

OR, I could go back, fight them all, slaughter everyone who ever pissed me off, and bathe in their blood. Yeah, second option's more to my liking. I cannot, in good conscience, let them fight each other without intervening because that would mean less blood for me.

I decided to sleep in the cabin, and hoped the following morning would bring me some ideas as to what to do in the immediate future; and if someone showed up to check on those auror's, too bad for them and more stress relief for me.

I manage, somehow, to get a relaxing night's sleep even with the howling windstorm and the never-ending thunders; it's really amazing the wonders a clean conscience can do to your sleeping habits.

Morning comes, the day not sunny and the birds not singing. The storm's gone for the time being, but there's a freezing wind sweeping these shores, and this piece of flotsam can't keep the chill out. Actually, I don't think it'll remain standing much longer either, if the creaking and snapping of the wooden boards that make up this shit-hole is any indication. I look outside through windows incrusted with mould, and ponder my next actions. Ridiculous as it may seem, I have no fucking idea about what I should do next, apart from killing those bastard friends of mine. I really needed to learn how to apparate, I didn't relish the thought of stepping out into the cold; every person is allowed to be a pansy once in a while, and this is my pansiness: I can't fucking stand the cold.

It's also ridiculous that a guy who just broke out of Azkaban bare-handed can't even magically get himself out of this place, but even one such as I has limitations; and no-one is more aware of said limitations than I. No doubt the ministry fucks will wonder how I blew out my door, and most will wonder how I got a wand to perform magic; then, some lunatic will bring up wandless magic, and they'll spin a story about how much of a dark wizard I am, and how many hidden powers I've got, that I'm even able to do wandless magic. Wandless magic is, unfortunately, a myth. I became aware of that, painfully aware, that is, during my tenure in Azkaban. Humans, no matter how powerful, aren't meant, aren't _built_ to channel magic without a focus. The powers I've obtained, while magical, don't require a focus for me to use, because they're so closely tied to me, or rather, my family.  
I find it ironic that someone like me, who spent so much time fighting a so-called Dark Lord due to said Dark Lord's purist ideology, would come to view his ancestry and blood as his salvation, but hey, I'm Harry Potter. And I'm not normal. And my life's fucked up, so why wouldn't irony be a part of it?

All of a sudden, I hear a voice behind me and I nearly jump out of my skin. I went to investigate whom the voice belonged to, vowing to give its owner a painful end for nearly giving me a heart attack. There was some sort of sink among all the garbage lining the interior of the hut, and the voice came from there. Creeping closer, I looked inside. It was full of some sort of liquid, not sure if it was water, don't give a damn either. There she was, looking like a reflex on the water. I gazed upon the form of one Nymphadora Tonks, who was calling for someone; I don't recognize the names, maybe the guys I put to rest (sort of) last night. I wondered why she continued to call for them, and why she didn't seem to notice me. She has her wand in her hand and his touching the liquid, so maybe I need a wand to establish communication. I consider it for a while, letting her see me.

Then I start imagining her showing up alone, trying to capture me. She would fail, I would bind her, and then introduce her to the Trouser Titan, who would be extremely happy to meet her as well. Damn, that woman has the curviest, firmest butt I've ever seen! I'll assume it's a natural feature of hers, since it's the only part of her anatomy she never changes. Heh, these thoughts are inevitable when you're a horny teenager who hasn't even seen a girl in three years. When I think that even that joke of human evolution called Ronald Weasley might've got some, even if it was from Whore-On-My-Knee, while I'm still a fucking virgin (No, not really, come to think of it; if I was a fucking virgin then I would be fucking and therefore, not a virgin, and this particular sore topic would be inexistent.) I feel like crying, or making others cry. Cry tears of blood, preferably.

Guess she got tired, she's gone now. Probably won't come alone either, if she comes at all. Well, I'm not waiting any longer. The storm's abated some; so I get dressed, take these guys' wands with me and the broom, and walk away from my humble dwelling. I was right, and the lights I saw yesterday were indeed a small village. I improvise a hiding place for the broom, after all how many normal tourists carry their brooms with them? Of course, no normal tourist would have a reason to visit this shit-hole of a place either, but that's beside the point; I just want to stick around for a while, find out what the brainiacs of the wizarding world think of the situation, what they plan to do to find me, maybe kill a couple of them. It's unlikely they'll bother the muggles; they probably think they didn't notice a thing. Actually, they didn't, but if they interrogated some of them, they would find out a lone tourist arrived the day after the menacing Harry Potter escaped from Azkaban, and even with the Ministry's previous shows of intelligence and competence (lack thereof, that is) it wouldn't take them long to make a connection between both events; I'd give them a week, two at most, to come up with the crazy theory that the lone tourist and Harry Potter were the same person.

Hedwig was following me, but went away as soon as I got to the village proper. I saw her flying inside the bell tower of the village's church, and assumed she was going to nap for a while. I thought about going to some pub, get something to eat, hear the latest gossip (for some reason, I always enjoyed hearing people talk about the pathetic problems of their pathetic lives; I don't know why, but it calms me down hearing someone talk about completely unimportant shit), when I remembered the crucial fact that my pockets are emptier than a Weasley's.

I kept walking around, trying not to attract too much attention, and wondering how to get my hands on some money for food and shit. I could just take what I want, yes, no one could stop me, but the fact is, these muggles did nothing to slight me; and though I _know_ that they're the same kind of sheep that inhabit the wizarding world (only slightly less stupid, I hope), killing them and harming them, even financially, when they've done nothing to me feels somewhat... wrong, you could say. Of course, there _are_ exceptions, and I just spotted one.

Lady Luck must've heard my silent plea, for a golden opportunity presented itself, not only to line my pockets with some much-needed currency, but also to satiate my growing need for violence. A man, talking to an elderly fisherman, certainly not the typical fishing village dweller. He was dressed in a suit that reminded me of Crouch, who dressed up as a banker for the World Cup, had an unpleasant smile on his lips, and a look on his face that practically screamed _'I'm so much better than you because I've got money!'._ Kind of like a muggle Malfoy. I got closer to them, and heard the guy in the penguin suit threaten the old man, saying he'd seize his property if he weren't paid by the end of the week. That definitely sealed Penguin's fate, as I decided the old fisherman's payment deadline would enjoy a lengthy extension.

Pulling him to a stinky alley and breaking his neck was simplicity itself, although the guy's pig-like squeals were loud and shrill enough to wake the dead. If anyone noticed us, they either didn't want to make a fuss about it, or they simply didn't care. The world, or at least this sleepy little village, would clearly be a better place without this rich fuck. And I got what I wanted, the guy was loaded! It's a small miracle no one did this before, what with the amount he had on his wallet combined with his lovely personality.

If I burn him, the smoke will probably be noticed. So, instead, I call my lioness. I made it seven feet tall this time, enough to gobble down muggle-Malfoy in one swallow. Nice, clean, no evidence whatsoever, big fat money lining my pockets. Life is sweet. Now, finally, to the fucking pub I go.

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"Kingsley, got a minute?" asked a pink haired woman, entering her boss's office without knocking.

"Sure, Tonks. Something wrong?" replied the imposing auror.

"It's probably nothing, but yesterday the guys at Azkaban didn't report. We let it pass since they're all so fond of booze, after all it wouldn't be the first time this sort of thing happened and all, but they still haven't called today either." said Tonks.

"Did you contact the garrison on the mainland?" asked the dark-skinned man.

"King, it's two blokes, as drunk as the rest of them, sitting in a rundown hut. Don't call it a garrison, ok? And yes, we tried, but they didn't answer." replied Tonks.

"It's probably a communication malfunction in the area. It's not the first time storms and such cause such problems. And since the village nearby is entirely muggle, they either don't know how to reach us by using muggle means, or they don't want to attract the locals' attention. Just send someone from the Magi-Comm. department to fix it." Kingsley then signed some form. "Here's the clearance to allow floo transport to the cabin, make sure they sort it out as soon as possible."

"Right, I'm on it!" said Tonks, tripping on the way out.

About fifteen minutes later, a man Kingsley saw several times at the Ministry, but whose name he never learned, stumbled into his office, followed by two other, younger men. He saw their identification cards, though, that labelled them employees of the Magi-Comm. The three of them were panting and gasping for breath, and as pale as ghosts. One of them bent over and kindly deposited his breakfast on Kingsley's office floor.

"What's the meaning...?" started Kingsley, only to be immediately interrupted.

"Awful, 't'was awful! They...d-dead! Blood... everywhere!" whatever the man was trying to say was cut short when he rolled his eyes and fainted, but Kingsley understood enough.

"Tonks! Dawlish! Jones! McMurdo! We're leaving for Azkaban now!" Said Kingsley loudly. He always transmitted an image of serenity, and that in turn calmed down people around him, and even though he appeared calm, his thoughts were anything but. The thought of Voldemort raiding Azkaban again immediately occurred to him, but why would Voldemort or his servants bother with the mainland garrison? And why would they bother with a raid in the first place? The war was not going that well, only four rookie death-eaters were in Azkaban; and those were the result of nearly three years of ministry work. He was jolted out of these thoughts when the aurors he called approached.

"Something wrong, boss?" asked a bald man with the physique of a body builder.

"Obviously, McMurdo. We're leaving, something's wrong in Azkaban."

"Tonks and Jones, a brown-haired, mousy youth, bit their own tongues so they wouldn't whimper at the thought of going there. Both of them were the youngest aurors in the department and had only been in Azkaban once (it was part of auror training and mandatory to become familiar with prison duties), and weren't particularly eager to repeat the experience.

The four aurors walked out of Kingsley's office, and headed to the magical transportation dep. to request a portkey that would take them near the cabin; Kingsley didn't fancy walking into a trap, and someone might be expecting them inside the cabin. Unfortunately, the three workers of Magi-Comm. hadn't bothered to be even remotely discreet, so by the time they arrived at Magical Transportation, they had already been accosted and interrogated by half of the bloody ministry, and rumours were running wild.

"Clear the way! Calm down, all of you, and let us check things out before you all start babbling nonsense!" shouted a red-faced Dawlish.

'Real smooth, Dawlish.' thought Kingsley irritably. 'Maybe if next time you _don't_ shout, and if you _don't_ let everybody know there's actually something to check out, that tactic works.'

Finally, they left the Ministry when they felt the tug of the portkey. They arrived in the middle of the wood, in sight of the cabin. It was around midday so they had good visibility, even if it was cloudy. Not a sound was heard. Bad sign. The cabin door was wide open. Very bad sign. Kingsley took the lead, and communicating with the others by hand signs, told them to cover him. He sneaked towards the cabin as well as he could, and got near enough to spot some kind of dark stain in the soil. Kneeling, he tried to figure out what it was, although he already had a pretty good guess. With the heavy rain, it was almost gone, but still perceptible. There was a trail of blood, as if something that was bleeding heavily was dragged towards the cabin. Kingsley crawled to the door, and when he was near, rolled into a standing position in front of the doorstep, wand out and at the ready.

Just as he feared, the others were dead. The sight wasn't pretty too, and only his great self-control stopped him from gagging or cursing at the sight and smell that greeted him.

"Kingsley! What do you see? What is it?" asked Tonks, as the rest of the group got closer. Kingsley didn't answer and just stepped inside, the others following promptly. Jones took a leaf off the Magi-Comm. workers' book and puked on the floor, while Tonks turned into a shade of green that had nothing to do with her metamorphmagus powers. There was a loud "FUCKIN' HELL!" from McMurdo, and Dawlish looked ready to bolt at a moments' notice. There was a man with three deep cuts on his throat; he was also stuck to the cabin's wall by what looked like a soup ladle. The other one was sprawled on the floor, lying in a pool of his own dried blood, with a hole the size of a plate on his chest; his heart was in the middle of a plate of stew, and someone had scribbled a message in blood on the table, that read _'Bon appétit!'_

"What kinda sicko would do this?" asked McMurdo, not really expecting an answer. "It's like Fenrir Greyback decided to throw a party!"

Kingsley thought it was quite possible Greyback was involved, if the level of savagery was anything to go by. "Jones! Pull yourself together and contact St. Mungo's! I want these bodies removed. Tonks, you call a forensics team of Unspeakables and backup from MLE. Move, people!" ordered Kingsley.

Kingsley secretly hoped it were a couple of sick Death Eaters who killed the aurors; however, he didn't really believe it. It was just a gut feeling, but he thought something was terribly wrong with the whole situation.

"McMurdo, Dawlish. Call the boat. We're going to the island."

McMurdo headed to a shelf, and retrieved a little sphere that looked like a marble. "Boss, this thing's green! The boat's here already."

"What? How could that be? There were no scheduled transportations, in or out of the island." Someone, or _something_, came in the boat, of that he was sure. There was no use speculating however, all he was doing was getting himself nervous. It was probably a Death Eater raid; Kingsley kept replaying that thought during their trip to the island.

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While Kingsley was feeling uncharacteristically nervous, Harry Potter sat in a barstool, drinking mead. The people were cheerful despite the weather, after downing a few mugs of their own, and nobody bothered him with questions. Some old men were playing cards, there was a group playing darts, and the others were just talking. It was somewhat crowded and filled with the fumes of tobacco, but Harry didn't mind. He was currently staring a blonde barmaid that was probably related to Madam Rosmerta; they didn't look much alike, not really, but the size of their assets, however... 'Yep! Harry, old boy, things are definitely looking up!' thought Harry, entranced with the bouncing.


	5. Dumbledore to the Rescue!

_Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter._

_A/N: Sorry all for the long wait, but if you read my profile you'll understand this hasn't been an easy time of my life. I hope to update more regularly now, once a week or so, since I've finished my Masters and I'm finally out of college. Thanks to all who took the time to review, now to answer some of your questions. _

_Darth Bill: I didn't say why he was convicted yet, but I hope you're not expecting an elaborate plot to chuck him in prison; when I explain why he was sent to prison maybe there are some who'll think it a fair punishment. Glad you liked my Hedwig!_

_Skoell: Any relationship Harry gets into won't be 'normal'; he'll be having fun, no doubt, and there won't be any fluff or annoying girlfriends. As to why Ron and Hermione are betrothed I'll offer my insight into their relationship, one I think is valid not only for my fic but for the canon as well._

_Hir: Got nothing definite for Tonks, but don't worry about her getting killed, worse that could happen to her would be to be turned into Harry's sex slave._

_anaknisatanas: You mean join him as in a follower or something? Doubt it, as his opinion of wizards is at an all time low._

_henriette: Harry can have fun with Tonks without having her for a girlfriend, right? And while I agree with you that he'd enjoy some ass, it definitely matters if it's a guy or girl. No slash, ever!_

_vojorocks: Harry had to wait three years, first because he went insane, and when he discovered his powers he actually had to practice them. Oh, btw, he definitely snapped._

_Alorkin: I understand if you don't like the fics where Ron is portrayed as a jealous idiot, but the fact is that I consider him a jealous idiot. Hermione won't have a completely leaky brain, and Harry most definitely won't be forgiving anyone anytime soon._

_Treck: Oh, I will. Just give me time to think of a suiting end for the greasy fucker._

_On with the story!_

**Chapter 4 – Dumbledore to the rescue!**

I woke up at sunrise like I always did, but instead of energized I was tired, sore and bruised. That's what you get when you spend five hours in a bed having rough sex with a busty, nymphomaniac milf barmaid; and while last night I certainly had the time of my life, I'm certain that any bones I possessed in my pelvic region have been pounded to dust. Oh well, anything to cure myself of that dreadful disease called virginity. Still lying in bed, with the sleeping blonde holding on to me, I smile (in a thoroughly evil way, I'm sure); I'd bet whatever money I have, or had in Gringotts that the aurors' night wasn't nearly as pleasant as mine, provided they already know what happened. If I could make my way to the island undetected, I'd go there just to see their reactions to everything that happened there: the dementors, the guys I killed, _how_ they were killed...

I expect someone from the ministry to arrive today to check things out, they can't be _that _incompetent. Maybe they even arrived yesterday, after all Tonks called and didn't receive an answer. It doesn't really matter, I'll watch them being terrified and making complete asses out of themselves when I have the time and if I feel like it. Right now, I have other, much more important things on my mind, like a certain blonde that woke up a couple of seconds ago and has started to use her tongue to revive me. I run my hands trough her hair and grab it, forcing her to take my member deeper into her mouth. With my last coherent thoughts, I silently sent a prayer of thanks to whatever gods that cared to listen that my new abilities provided me with the stamina of a raging bull; I sure as hell was going to need it.

* * *

This time, however, the ministry aurors were a bit more diligent than they had been in the past; the ministry had had bad experiences concerning Azkaban after all. The escape of Sirius Black and, a couple of years later the mass breakout of death eaters, all during Fudges tenure as minister gave the prison a worse reputation than ever. Not only it was Hell on earth and watched by soul sucking fiends, but also the really dangerous criminals didn't tend to stay for long. So, it was understandable that Azkaban was a sore point to the current minister, Rufus Scrimgeour; although he was a man of action, with loads more experience in law enforcement than Fudge, he was first and foremost a politician, and like all politicians, he tended to cling to their power in detriment of everything else, even if he stood at Hell's gates. Rufus considered that another breakout would place him in the same level of competence as Fudge in the eyes of the public, something he, of course, wanted to avoid at all costs, and it was also the reason why every ministry worker avoided reporting anything concerning Azkaban to the man.

You see, although he demanded to be informed of everything going on in the prison, whenever the slightest problem was mentioned, such as the need to send more supplies to the island, the dwindling stocks of toilet paper or an auror guard requesting an early leave from duty, the minister first shouted for five minutes at whoever reported it, then he tended to overreact badly; one time, one of the aurors stationed in the mainland garrison was supposed to make his daily report, but thought it was ok to take a dump first, after all it would only be a delay of ten to fifteen minutes, provided of course he wasn't constipated. Unfortunately, Rufus Scrimgeour was inspecting the Auror HQ that day, and the delay was immediately noticed by a rookie auror trying to suck up to the minister and trying to act competent.

So, when the ministry's aurors tried contacting the cabin and couldn't (one guy in the john, the other asleep), the result was thirty something aurors storming a rotting shack, nearly giving the sleeping guy a coronary, and catching one of their own hastily pulling up his trousers after taking a crap.

That was why no one reported anything about Azkaban to the minister anymore; sure, communication failed some times, but it was usually one of the frequent storms in the area interfering, or the aurors in the cabin passing out after one too many shots of Old' Ogden's.

This time, however, shit _did_ happen, and Scrimgeour was notified with a twelve-hour delay, and was understandably pissed off about it. Kingsley, who was the auror in command at the time everything happened, was now being subjected to having to listen to the minister's dulcet tone of voice; fifty insults, seventy obscenities and countless threats later, in which a job transfer to Siberia was implied, the great Scrimgeour finally had the brilliant idea of asking what had happened.

Kingsley knew he had it coming. He had delayed this information for more than twelve hours, and he knew that he should have investigated it immediately after his men failed to present their daily report; it's just that he knew how this particular duty affected his men's psyche, and the amount of stress pilled on them, having to live in this place with the prisoners and the dementors; taking the Dark Lord and his war into account, and the fact that the prison was one of his targets and that they could get hit at any time, many aurors had to be threatened into undertaking guard duty in the prison, and even that sometimes failed. Kingsley didn't want to check on the situation because he didn't feel like stumbling in on a couple of drunks, that would then have to be reprimanded, or catching another of his co-workers relieving themselves.

And Kingsley also knew that Scrimgeour was as ineffective as Fudge had been, despite the attempts he made to look competent. He shouted more loudly than Fudge, was much more intimidating, and had the advantage of not soiling himself at the first sign of trouble, unlike his predecessor; this didn't change the fact that the man was a fool. Unfortunately for Kingsley, this fool was also the minister, and therefore, his boss, and he was also storming up to the prison's gates to meet him.

* * *

"NOW, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED HERE?" thundered the minister, red faced and panting with the effort of bullying his underling.

"I don't know minister, that's why I called the Unspeakables." replied Kingsley.

"ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY, SHACKLEBOLT?"

"No sir, I really don't know what happened." said Kingsley calmly. Before Scrimgeour could work himself into a new rant he added, "All we know is that someone came from the island, presumably from the prison, took the boat to the mainland, and killed the two aurors stationed there. We also assume the same person to be responsible for the death of one of the aurors in the boathouse and the disappearance of the other."

"Disappearance? Who disappeared?" demanded Scrimgeour.

"David Williamson, one of the aurors on duty at the time." said Kingsley.

"How do you know this Williamson didn't do all this then? And for that matter, how do you know it was someone from the island?"

Kingsley held back a sigh, thinking about the stupidity of the man in front of him, and answered, "Auror Hope, who was at the boathouse with Williamson, was found impaled on the rocks below the boathouse. Since the structure is supported and maintained by magic, the floorboards wouldn't simply break with his weight, which leads us to the conclusion that someone or something caused him to break through the floor, using quite a bit of force to do it. As for Williamson, we found a corpse being thrown against the rocks by the waves; I'm waiting for someone to confirm his identity, since the body was unrecognisable due to the amount of times it was smashed."

"And we know it was someone from the island, because we found the boat on the mainland, and as you know, regulation dictates that unless there's a transportation scheduled, which there wasn't, the boat stays anchored in Azkaban."

"What about inside the prison? Why are you all out here doing nothing when you could be trying to find out if some prisoner escaped? Couldn't you think of that on your own, Shacklebolt?" spat Scrimgeour.

"If you bothered to take a look at the prison's gates, sir..." replied Kingsley, tired of the man's attitude problem.

Seeing Scrimgeour's dumbfounded and stupefied expression was all the reward Kingsley needed.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was going through some paperwork when green flames suddenly appeared on his fireplace, showing the face of Nymphadora Tonks.

"Professor, do you have some time to spare? I'm afraid there's a situation in Azkaban that requires your assistance." said Tonks.

"Of course, ms. Tonks!" replied the old man in a calm tone, though he was internally alarmed at the possibility of another escape. 'Please don't let be _him_, it's too soon!'. "Whatever is the matter?"

"It's better that you come take a look for yourself, professor. It took us long enough to convince minister Scrimgeour to ask you for help, and to be honest, you have to see it to believe it!" answered Tonks.

"Of course, I shall come over immediately!"

Indeed, one had to see to believe. The gates of Azkaban would surely be considered one of the marvels of the wizarding world, if one would look past their appearance and their purpose. There was no single object more heavily enchanted in the whole world, tons of iron went into it's construction, dozens of spells cast for days on end to insure it would be nearly impossible to be breached. They were virtually indestructible, and were well maintained, despite the rusty outlook, which is why even Dumbledore was struck dumb as he saw the gates melded together.

"Well, Dumbledore? What caused this?" asked Scrimgeour, his tone almost demanding an answer from the older wizard.

"I don't know. Nothing I can think of; no spell, no creature should be able to do this." he looked pensive for a moment, then said "It appears as if the gates were melt. Nothing short of dragonfire could do it, and even then it would take several hours to accomplish this." said Dumbledore.

"So, you're saying you don't really know, is that it? For all you know, it could be an escaped convict that did it." stated Scrimgeour smugly, as if he had scored a great victory over Dumbledore.

"Don't be ridiculous, Rufus." replied Dumbledore dryly "If there was a convict inside with so much power, I highly doubt he would've allowed himself to be captured in the first place. And I believe I already told you I don't know what could cause this; I suggest you actually listen to what people have to say when you question them instead of blocking everything off except for your own opinions. It would look better on your part, I think."

Anticipating a tantrum from the nearly apoplectic politician, Dumbledore continued "It would be better if we had the opinion of a specialist in this case. There is only one man still alive that took part in putting together these gates, and as luck would have it, he's a teacher at Hogwarts." turning to one of the auror's, he said "Commander Shacklebolt, might I suggest you contact professor Filius Flitwick and ask him to come here?"

Kingsley nodded and ran off to do just that, not only to speed things up, but also to escape the ravings of Scrimgeour, furious at being swept aside once again by Dumbledore.

* * *

I wave my buxom blonde goodbye as I leave her pub, with a standing invitation to come back whenever I pass this way. I may just do that, if I have the time. Well, time isn't in short supply for me, but I have other interests to pursue other than her D-cups. Like killing, maiming, maiming and _then_ killing, spill some blood, spill a lot of blood, hack limbs apart, rip off heads with my bare hands, etc, etc, the list goes on and on. I also like to pass my time imagining the deaths that will soon befall my dear friends.

Oh, the possibilities. There's so many ways I'd like to kill them that I think I'll be unhappy with whichever I choose. Take that annoying Colin Creepy, the camera freak. If I boil him alive, then I won't be able to perform the Death of One Thousand Cuts on him, nor will I be able to quarter him. Well, I could, but he'd already be dead, so what would be the fucking point? It's a damn shame I can only kill them once.

Whistling and in high spirits, I decide to leave the village and see what the Three Hundred Stooges are doing. Maybe I'll reveal myself right here and now, or maybe I'll just fuck around with their minds, if they even have any, or maybe I'll sit back to watch the fruits of my labour and those guys making asses out of themselves – always a good thing.

Before I could actually leave, however, I saw two policemen asking questions to a group of people. I didn't need enhanced hearing to figure out what they were asking about – the mysterious disappearance of Muggle Malfoy. I hid in the shadows of the very same alley where, the day before, the aforementioned grease ball met his end. I could hear them perfectly despite the distance, and all was going well until one of those fish smelling yokels opened his fucking mouth to tell the Bobbies that there was a stranger in the village, that had coincidentally arrived the same day the rich bastard disappeared.

I was not worried, after all what could they do to me? They couldn't find any evidence, and even if they could, even if they accused me, how would they capture me? How would they imprison me? What a laugh. Still, I was pissed, and decided to capture the fisherman's face in my memory so I could pay him a little visit in the future.

* * *

Professor Flitwick was a young man when he participated in the construction of Azkaban's Gates; in fact, it was his first job after attaining his Charms Mastery. As he surveyed the damage done, he corroborated Dumbledore's words; only dragonfire would stand a chance of actually damage the gates by melting them, and it would take an adult dragon several hours of constant assaulting to produce similar results to those presented to them.

"Well, now what? How do we get in?" asked Shacklebolt.

"The gates are strong, but the rest of the prison isn't as strong. We'll find some weak point in the structure and blast our way in!" stated Scrimgeour.

Sighing, Dumbledore turned to the minister and said, "As you well know, minister, attacking any other point other than the gates, or _blasting your way in_, as you so elegantly put it, will require us to cause the collapse of the wards around the prison, giving the opportunity to any of the prisoners who might still be relatively strong to apparate away. Wards that will take weeks to replace."

"THEN WHAT DO YOU THINK WE SHOULD DO, DUMBLEDORE? SIT BACK AND RELAX, AND HOPE THIS PROBLEM GOES AWAY?" shouted Scrimgeour.

"One of your department heads, Arthur Weasley, has a son working in a dragon reserve in Romania. If you would contact him, you might get some help from the people of the reserve. The best way to enter the prison right now, without resorting to collapsing the wards, would be to melt the gates some more, and for that we definitely need dragons."

Before anyone could reply, he added "We can also ask the dragon handlers if they have any news about an adult rogue dragon in this part of the world, or if any reserve has reported missing dragons."

The dragons eventually arrived. A pair of adults spat fire at the gates for hours, until it got dark, while Dumbledore and Flitwick occasionally threw a couple of unknown spells to see if they could speed things up. Several hours of heavy work later, they finally managed to breach the gates, enough for one person to squeeze through. Dumbledore prepared to enter the prison as well when a flare of light caught his eye, coming from the mainland. It was gone just as quickly, and the headmaster was left wondering if he actually saw anything.

"What's the problem, Albus?" asked Flitwick.

"Nothing, Filius." said Dumbledore, turning to look at the short professor "Let us proceed."

Just a few feet away stood a guardhouse, and at it's door, a couple of aurors and a minister, all looking a little sick. Dumbledore made his way inside the guardhouse, only to see one of his Order members staring vacantly ahead, one of his hands charred beyond recovery and separated from the rest of his arm. He also looked like he took a severe beating, if the state of his face and the puddles of blood on the floor were anything to go by; taking everything into consideration, Dumbledore couldn't blame the others for feeling queasy, he himself didn't feel good at all right now. The stench permeating the room didn't help.

"Peter? Can you hear me?" asked Dumbledore. The other man showed no signs of recognition, or any reaction. "We're here to take you home Peter, you're safe now!" this time, a hint of desperation could be heard from the old wizard.

Kingsley got close and said "It's no use, sir. He's been kissed. He's not wearing his pendant."

Dumbledore got a mournful look on his face at the death of another friend, but had no time to comment or reply, for the people still at the door started shouting and pulling out their wands. There was a swarm of dementors heading towards them, every dementor in the island seemed intent on charging them. The weakest among the ministry's group started trembling, whimpering and some passed out. The others prepared to fight.

"FIRE AT WILL! PATRONUS CHARM ONLY, NOTHING ELSE WORKS! FIRE!" thundered Scrimgeour.

Dozens of shouts of "_Expecto Patronum_!" filled the prison's hallways, and the streams of silver met the dementors; the black robed creatures wavered, but continued their advance. It took almost five minutes of uninterrupted casting to drive them back to the shadowy recesses of the ancient building. A third of the team was unable to do anything, due to overexposure to the dementors' auras; Scrimgeour ordered them taken outside so they could recover, but the minister himself was intent on staying.

"I _will_ get to the bottom of this! And I'll start right now. I want a head count performed, and I want to know what the prisoners saw and heard! Move, people!" shouted Scrimgeour "I want teams of no less than seven people moving about, in case the dementors come back!"

"What got into those filthy beasts anyway?" the minister mumbled.

Dumbledore didn't answer; in fact he was not near the minister anymore. Scrimgeour barely had time to see Dumbledore's robes disappearing around a corner. 'Damn that man, where does he think he's going?' "Dumbledore!"

Dumbledore didn't even slow down. He was running down corridors and flights of steps as quickly as he could, towards a familiar destination; he had taken this route many times before: Third Underground Level, North Wing, sixth corridor, Cell number Thirteen. It was empty. The cell's door was stuck in the opposite wall, as if it had been blown off. There were no signs of the occupant.

Scrimgeour arrived a few seconds later, out of breath. Dumbledore leaned his back against the wall, all energy leaving him suddenly, as the implications of the current situation sank in. Scrimgeour was silent, a look of fury in his eyes. He knew who the cell used to hold, he too had done this trek many times in recent years.

"What do we tell them?" asked Scrimgeour, his pride and bluster momentarily forgotten.

"This information will end up leaking sooner or later, Rufus. My advice is simply to tell the truth." said Dumbledore.

"Harry Potter has escaped, and there's a very real possibility that he caused all this mess. There are no rogue dragons flying around Azkaban, Dumbledore, something or _someone_ did that little number on the gates." he continued in a quieter tone of voice "There's nothing simple about this truth, Dumbledore. Nothing at all."

* * *

The man of the moment, Harry Potter, was sleeping in the woods. He got tired of waiting for the ministry's folks to do something relevant and/or amusing, so he decided to take a nap. He woke up at nightfall, mist and rain gone and a full moon rising, only to see the distant glare of fires on the island.

'Still couldn't get inside? Pathetic, really fucking pathetic.'

Suddenly, Harry tensed, as he realised someone was coming towards him. Walking, not running, but definitely towards him.

'Looks like someone's got a death wish. Oh, goody!'

Voldemort had heard the news about disturbances at the island, and, not being the cause of said disturbances, he was understandably curious, so he sent one of his Death Eaters to investigate.

Harry turned around and finally saw whom it was.

"Oh, ho! I can't fucking believe this!" said Harry loudly.

Twenty feet away, waving, with filthy grey hair, yellow claws and a smile as psychotic as Harry's, stood Fenrir Greyback.


End file.
